linger
by bullet to the stars
Summary: In which Francis is the student who falls for a certain Mr. Kirkland.


There is something oddly fascinating about Mr. Kirkland, Francis thinks, as he stretches lazily in class one afternoon, listening to his Literature teacher go on and on about some Shakespearean play.

(It's Act Two Scene One in King Lear, Francis knows because he actually pays attention every now and then, in between wondering what sort of things Mr. Kirkland can say in that wonderfully _British _accent of his)

Sometimes Francis wonders if it has something to do with his teacher's extremely thick well-defined eyebrows (dubbed Them Caterpillars by Alfred and the nickname earned him a gift of scones from Mr. Kirkland - black lumps that everyone called The Scones of Death - and from then on no one dared to comment about it ever again) or maybe it has something to do with how once people get past the eyebrows, Mr. Kirkland actually looks rather... Attractive. Francis decides that it has to be his long, slender legs in those absolutely sinful skinny jeans. Or maybe it's his stunning emerald eyes, smouldering with mystery.

(Or maybe it's just his overactive imagination, to be honest, he isn't too sure)

So Francis decides that he needs a plan (it'd be better if Antonio and Gilbert didn't know because Gilbert, bless his soul, would be an ass and try to fuck things up just for, to put it as he would, with his characteristic laughter, 'for shits and giggles' and Antonio, well, Gilbert had his ways of getting him to spill the beans) to make Mr. Kirkland take greater notice of him.

(He's good at getting what he wants, he's used to getting what he wants as long as he tries and it comes easily because before long, he's topping the class from time to time and during his one to one 'supplementary lessons' after class he ends up arguing with Mr. Kirkland, yelling at one another like old friends enemies at the top of their voices, each too eager to prove their point to the other - "Frog!" "Rosbif!" - that they forget about the boundaries, they forget that in reality, they are _teacher_ and _student_)

But reality is a cruel thing, and it comes crashing in at the wrong time, when Francis realises that there's a terribly familiar tingly feeling of butterflies in gut, of his heart beating fast and that fleeting moment of being set on fire when his fingers accidentally brush against Mr. Kirkland's.

(Francis isn't exactly sure if it's accidentally afterwards, maybe it's accidentally-on-purpose on his part, he doesn't know, or rather, he's too afraid to know what it really is because he isn't sure if this is just another silly crush on a teacher, no less, _merde_ or it's something much _more_)

Dreams of Mr. Kirkland (beneath him, moaning his name over and over again, _FrancisFrancisFrancis_, cheeks flushed) come to Francis unbidden (they hold hands, fingers intertwined, walking down the street together, on their way home after dinner) and they whisper seductive words (Mr. Kirkland kissing him in an empty classroom after class, his tongue in his mouth, hands on his back), enticing him (they sit across one another, having breakfast together) showing him different 'what if's.

And he hates the 'what if's, because it clings to him, gnaws at him. He knows he's fucked when he feels a pang in his heart whenever he sees Mr. Kirkland talking, laughing and smiling with the other teachers because he knows that all he can ever be to Mr. Kirkland is just another "brilliant, talented lad" (as Mr. Kirkland himself grudgingly, Francis supposes, admits on his term report) in his Literature class, just another face in the crowd that will be easily forgotten once he graduates. And it stings, because this time feels different, it's no longer like those childish flings he's had over the summer, over weekends.

And Francis realises that he has only two options - to bury it, suppress it so viciously that by the time he's headed off for college, when anyone speaks of Mr. Kirkland to him he'd go 'Oui, oui, I _was once head over heels in love with him but could never bring myself to admit it_ remember him. Eyebrows, right?' or to pursue the matter (of which the consequences would be dire and highly unsavoury if not handled well, but then again, love _is_supposed to be sweet) and win Mr. Kirkland's heart.

He mulls over it.

Ponders.

Spouts poetry (_mon ange avec les yeux verts et le cheveux blonde, venez-moi_) when drunk, much to Antonio and Gilbert's eternal amusement.

Stays away from the rest of the world for two weekends.

Makes up his mind.

Appears in class with a megawatt smile bright enough to rival Alfred's, and that is when the change begins, bit by bit, spreading warmth from Francis' fingertips, snaking upwards to wrap around him.

(The dreams occur less often now, instead, he has nightmares of failing Mr. Kirkland's class, which he wakes up from in cold sweat)

Francis goes for subtle, 'trying to be helpful for once', in Mr. Kirkland's words, laced with sarcasm and he takes it with a smile, says 'of course, aren't I always' with a smirk and for a moment (in a fraction of a second, blink and you'll miss it) Mr. Kirkland's cheeks flush red, and then it is gone, _gone_, but Francis, he sees it when he closes his eyes and he carries it in his heart, a small victory.

And so it goes, further, slowly, with Francis stumbling (no, not really, he's strolling, really) down the road of no return, collecting little trophies here and there (another blush, an almost shy, schoolgirl boy like glance at him when he was supposedly looking the other way and his fingers on his hand, accidentally on purpose) and he knows, he knows, he has to do something soon, or it will be lost forever.

(It's a month to graduation, his finals are almost here, he's supposed to have studied but all he sees is Mr. Kirkland and him in chemical equations, thinking of how to differentiate- no, never mind, let's not go there - but he tries, he tries, but it's no use, he has to do something, _anything_)

He takes the plunge.

The words tumble out in an almost incoherent mess.

(It isn't quite how Francis envisioned it, spent hours imagining how it would turn out, but it happens nevertheless, in an empty classroom, doors closed, late afternoon sun streaming in through the curtains, with Mr. Kirkland sitting at the edge of the teacher's table and Francis a desk away)

He holds his breath, holds it, keeps on holding it as Mr. Kirkland stares at him, first incredulously, then it morphs into something... Different.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Kirkland says, slowly, carefully enunciating each word and the sinking feeling hits Francis, like a punch to his gut and it hurts, hurts so bad that he wants to leave but he doesn't, he puts on a smile, forces it to stay there as Mr. Kirkland's brow furrows and he sighs.

"This is... Very sudden," Mr. Kirkland takes a deep breath, massages his temples. "I... I'm sorry, it's just..."

And Francis is left looking at him, staring at him, and it's there, in front of him once more, button A button B, pick one, choose your adventure, walk away or stay, stay and _change_-

He closes the distance in between them, cups Mr. Kirkland's cheek (surprisingly smooth) and presses his lips to his.

They stay like this for a while.

When they break apart, Mr. Kirkland's cheeks are visibly flushed, his hands have somehow found their way to Francis' head, it doesn't quite make sense (or maybe it does, because all it means is that Francis has succeeded) but it feels good, wonderful, brilliant, fantastic, just...

Right.

"So," Francis says, looking straight into Mr. Kirkland's eyes (they're just as he imagined, brilliant pools of emerald, stunning, absolutely lovely and full of mystery), panting, just a little. "You were saying?"

"Y-yes," Mr. Kirkland says, sounding flustered, trying to avoid Francis' gaze. "I-"

"You?"

"Well," Mr. Kirkland pauses, hesitates.

Francis' strokes his cheek and smiles. "Why don't we start again," he says, licking his lips. (They taste of Arthur, of lemon and citrus) "I'm Francis. And you?"

Mr. Kirkland raises an eyebrow, laughs as he pulls Francis closer. "I'm Arthur," he says, lips brushing against Francis'. "Pleasure to meet you."

* * *

><p><strong>an: **for the kink meme. reviews will be greatly appreciated. the french translates to my angel with green eyes and blonde hair, come to me.


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